Another Blog

I forgot to mention that I was asked to write a post for Pink Pangea, a women's travel blog. Here's the link in case you're interested:

http://dev.pinkpangea.com/a-walk-through-meknes-morocco

Unrest

With all of the uprisings across North Africa and the Middle East coupled with questions from people I've seen, I thought it might be nice to update those who still check back occasionally on the blog on the situation in Morocco.

The situation in Morocco is quite unique. The overwhelming majority of the people in Morocco love their king. To understand their support of King Mohamed VI, it is necessary to know a little of Morocco's history. Mohamed VI's f

ather, Hassan II, ruled the country from 1966 until his death in 1999. He was known for his very conservative rule and poor human rights record. He strengthened the Alaouite Dynasty. From the 1960's to the 1980's he had thousands of dissidents jailed, killed, exiled, or forcibly disappeared.

King Mohamed VI, however, is known as the people's king. He has expanded spending for schools and other welfare programs. He and his family are seen as being quite progressive. His sisters, who head different departments across the government, choose not to wear any sort of head coverings. One sister in particular, the head of the Equestrian Department, even goes so far as to always wear pants.

This isn't to say that Morocco is problem free. There are many issues that have not been addressed by the government, and there is still a large proportion of the population below the poverty level. It is still dangerous to speak out directly against the king, and highly frowned upon to imply that the Western Sahara is an independent country (I don't know if any of you noticed the map change part way through the year on my blog).

I have been in contact with friends who are still in Morocco, and they tell me that every few days there will be half-hearted demonstrations in Meknes, gatherings of 15 to 20 people. The demonstrations don't last long, and they lose steam quickly. What it boils down to is this: Moroccans love their king too much to want any drastic changes.

Exit Strategy

Visas are silly little things. It really wasn't until my sojourn in Morocco that I realized how extremely lucky we Americans are. I watched shocked as a Colombian friend was time and time again foiled by visas. It is necessary for him to have a visa to travel pretty much anywhere and getting the visa, the right visa for the right amount of time, can take months and countless hours of running around to different embassies. Americans are truly lucky, and we don't even realize how lucky we are usually.

Now normally, even an American would need a visa to stay in a country for more than 3 months, but in Morocco, they just ask that you file for an extension of stay or a residency card. Since my stay was just slightly longer than 3 months, I applied for an extension of stay. I spent a few hours one day running around Meknes getting visa pictures taken and having copies of documents made, but all in all, it wasn't too dificult.

A couple of weeks later, I went down to the local police station with one of my directors to make the paperwork official. We walked through the station which was comprised of a long narrow corridor with dozens of small rooms off of it. We squeezed past ladies of the night and questionable looking gentlemen as we made our way down the hall. At the end was a large room that really looked more like it should be the main entrance to the building. I actually think that it was at some point, as several doors led out to the main street, but it must have been more difficult to monitor the many doors in the front. Instead they made the small backdoor the only entrance.

I waited while my director conducted the business of the day in Arabic. As I waited I began to notice hukas everywhere. Hukas are tall devices used to smoke tobacco through water and are quite popular in Morocco as well as other places. There must have been well over a hundred hukas along the walls, stacked in the corners... everywhere I looked. Naturally, when my director finished the business, I asked the reason-surely it wasn't just a popular past time in the police station. She explained that huka was illegal in cafes. However, the police turn a blind eye for months or even years, and then, without warning, they go in for a sting.

The week before I was to depart from Meknes, my official extension receipt arrived. I carefully stashed it away in my passport. My directors said I may need it when leaving the country. The day of departure quickly approached. My mom and stepfather had come to visit, and I had said a bittersweet goodbye to all of my new friends. My mom, stepfather, and I made our way to the airport, checked in, and as I was about to go through emigration, I noticed that my extension receipt had slipped out of my passport and was nowhere to be found. Panic momentarily rushed through me, but I qualmed my fears. Obviously my extension would be in the computer files, and the emigration man had a computer right in front of him-no problem. WRONG!

Fifteen minutes later, I'm sitting on a bench being lectured by two emigration officers as they threaten to not let me through. I promise at least a dozen times that I do have the extension, I know that I should have the receipt, but it had obviously fallen out of my passport in the shuffle to the airport. They let me through, thankfully.

I know it was my fault and that I should have been more careful with my receipt, but I find it funny that the way that they would punish a person for not having an extension of stay is to not let that person leave the country-that just seams a little backwards.

We flew out of Morocco to Rome. In the ensuing three weeks, we've travelled through Italy, France, Portugal, and Spain. It has been a wonderful time, and a good chance to slowly acclimate myself to the cold weather undoubtably waiting for me back in Minnesota and Michigan. I sit now in my hotel room, my last night on a foreign continent. Tomorrow night I'll be under my sister's roof. By Thursday I'll be waking up to the sounds of my niece-excited to start a new day.

I'm always sad to see an adventure end, but I can't wait to see all of you-my friends and family who have been such loyal readers and followers of this blog. Thank you for sharing in this most amazing experience, and if you don't mind, I may even have some epilogual stories for you whenever I see you next!

Happy New Year!

Home

My time in Morocco is almost over. It is hard to believe how quickly the time has passed. I know I have grown in some ways-become stronger or wiser, but the truth is that I can't tell yet. I still feel like it was yesterday that I stepped off that bus in a strange new city, crossing the street to live with a family I knew nothing about. The only real way for me to see that time has in fact marched on is to see my little niece TALKING to me on Skype, or hear about the wedding plans of one of my dearest friends. I know that time has passed because so much has happened at home. Being here in Meknes has almost been like an escape from the real world. I know I've done a lot, seen a lot, learned, experienced, and eaten a lot. I've made friends, and I've gained a family. But time? Time seems to have stood still.

One of my most frequently asked questions is, "do you miss home?" Yes. That's an easy one. I always miss home. From the moment I step on a plane to somewhere new, I miss home. The next question, "are you excited to go home", is harder to answer. Yes, I want to go home, don't get me wrong. I miss the people. I miss not having to think when I want to communicate in everyday life. I miss that comfort with the culture that you never realize you have until you are completely out of your element. Yet, even with all of the things and people that make me miss home, I don't know if I'm ready. Of course it should be noted that I didn't feel "ready" to come here either.

This city, this apartment has become another sort of home. It's the little things that make it home: when my host mom covers me with a blanket when I fall asleep on the couch; when, despite all odds, I'm able to carry on a really great conversation in French; when my host brother brings home a book in French for me to read-just because he thinks I'll like it. When I leave home, I know I'll be coming back. There is too much I love there to stay away forever. But, as I prepare to leave Morocco, I'm faced with the reality that in all likelihood, I'll never get to live here again. Yes, I will do everything in my power to come back and visit, but living here, with this family and these friends-that part is over. So in that respect, I hope the next week and a half pass slowly.

Three months isn't that long, but it is long enough. It is long enough to adapt. There are times when I'm walking down the street and wonder why everyone is looking at me. I feel so comfortable. I know where I'm going and how to get there. I forget that even though my blue eyes have seen all of these sights before, a lot of these sights still aren't used to seeing blue eyes.

Eventhough I look forward to resuming real life with my friends and family at home, I feel a pang of sadness when I think about leaving here in 11 days.

Food for Thought

Americans are independent, arrogant, fat, work-obsessed, nosy, stupid and rich-or so we've been labeled by the rest of the world. It shouldn't come as too much of a shock. In fact, if you watch American television or films, we make fun of ourselves daily for these very stereotypes. There are many other stereotypes that we attach to ourselves as well. I'm sure it won't take you too long to come up with more to add to my list. As with any stereotype, it isn't exactly true. Yes, we can find examples of all of these traits throughout America and probably even within ourselves, but for the most part, we can shrug them off as being stereotypes and nothing more.

Last Sunday some friends and I went to Kenitra to have a discussion on stereotypes with some Moroccan students. We weren't looking forward to it. I'm sorry to admit it, but it seemed like a lot of extra work and money, and none of us could really imagine much of a benefit. However, our professor was very excited about it, and so on Saturday morning, we prepared our presentation. The next day we took the train to Kenitra.

Our list of Moroccan stereotypes was short-almost nonexistent. Afterall, it isn't a country that a person hears a lot about in the states. To compensate for this, we discussed stereotypes for the Arab world in general. Our only stereotypes for Morocco specifically were about Moroccan men.

The list of American stereotypes from the Moroccan students was much longer and contained many of the stereotypes I listed above. In addition they listed things like, "all American men love football" and "all American women love cheerleading." They showed a clip from "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader" and another where a foreigner was asking Americans basic questions that they of course couldn't answer correctly (or even close).

After both sides had given their presentations, we started to discuss. Our professor asked the Moroccan boys in the room how many of them had harrassed a girl on the street. They all raised their hands. None could really give an excuse, but even the girls, who admitted they too were subject to such harrassment, tried to defend that part of the culture while at the same time saying that they wished it wasn't that way.

When we discussed the American stereotypes, I think the Moroccans were surprised that we weren't more defensive. They criticized American television and films for giving the world this view of Americans. We admitted that the stereotypes were partly true and that those who are given the spotlight in our country are often the least deserving. However, we tried to impress upon them that when they watch our films and shows, they should see them as entertainment-not real life. Our real lives in America would never make it past a pilot for the most part. The Moroccans seemed more angry about the way the entertainment industry presented Americans than we Americans were.

After a lunch of sandwiches and pizza and a group sing along, we hopped back on the train. Nothing was really resolved, but we did have a lot more to think about, and we were all happy that we had gone.

The Sacrifice

First of all, I have to apologise for my long absence. I had a wonderful week break from school that I spent travelling around Morocco with an American friend, and as I sent her off to Minnesota, to the cold and the snow, I welcomed my aunt, uncle, and cousins for a weeklong visit. Now that everyone has left, and schoolwork has been caught up on, I can finally devote some time to blogging!

Eid al-Adha is the Islamic holiday that commemorates Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael. Weeks before, Anne and I had accompanied our family to a farm to pick out a ram for the holiday, but sadly, as the date drew nearer, we realized that both of us would be away from home for the actual holiday. Anne would be in Germany, and I would be in the Sahara with my friend. Both of us were very disheartened.

However, as luck would have it, one of my directors is actually from the Sahara region that Lisa and I would be visiting, and he invited us to spend Eid with his family. So, on Wednesday morning, Lisa and I woke to a wonderful breakfast overlooking the Saharan dunes, and then drove to Rissani to witness the sacrifice.

Every Muslim family, if they can financially afford it, is supposed to purchase and sacrifice a ram on this day. As we drove we saw rams being dragged, carted, and motorcycled to their fate. Like they had some sort of sixth sense, the rams seemed especially stubborn to do as they were told.

We learned that Eid in small villages has stayed very traditional. It is a community holiday, a holiday meant to bring friends and family together. Above all else, it is supposed to be a holiday of sharing. It is not permitted to sell any part of the ram, and a family should donate part of their ram to a family that cannot afford their own. To begin the custom a holy man first says a prayer, and then the sacrificing can begin. If a family does not know how to sacrifice their own, the holy man will perform the sacrifice himself.

The ram's feet were tied, and several men held the struggling animal on his back on the dusty ground. The man with the knife gripped the ram's head and ran the knife across its throat. Blood gurgled out, staining the hard, dry ground red. The men backed away quickly, as the ram struggled to breath. He gave a large thrust of his body, actually moving several feet to the side, and spraying blood everywhere. Then he lay motionless, defeated. It was the first time I had ever watched an animal die.

Immediately after, the body is strung up by a hind leg, and the head is cut off. The men in the family begin to undress the sheep, peeling its skin off in one piece, like pulling off a sweater. In fact, it reminded me greatly of how my parents used to say "skin the bunny" when they would change my clothes when I was little-only it seemed more morbid this time around. The women burned the head and feet. Every part of the ram would be used in some way or another.

After the skin was taken off, sprinkled with salt, and left in the sun to dry, they cut open the sheep. Organs poured out. As the family disected the animal, I wished I had paid better attention in biology lab. Organs were cleaned with water and separated into different basins, depending on how they would be used.

When the work was done, we had tea and cookies, and shortly after, we were brought ram skewers hot off the grill. The family sat around talking and joking. This is the holiday everyone comes home for. Neighbors are constantly stop by, and the family is so large it is hard to keep everyone straight.

Lisa and I voyaged into the desert by camel to camp that night, but everyone else in those villages was staying up late ,munching on ram, visiting friends, and laughing with family.

Rules of the Road

On account of Eid, the University was shut down for a week, giving students the opportunity to flit off across Europe and Africa. I chose to stay in Morocco to discover a bit more about the country, and one of my best friends from the States came to explore with me.

Saturday, November 13, was my birthday. It started with some surprise gifts from my roommate, birthday wishes from the family, and then I was off on a train ride to Rabat. Well, actually Sale. Sale was an adventure in itself, so I'll leave that for another blog. I picked Lisa up from the airport without too much difficulty, and we found a budget hotel close to the train station in Rabat.

The next morning we were up at 4:30 to catch the 5:30 train to Marrakech. The train was not so prompt as we were. It was delayed by an hour, and we were sleep deprived and hungry. Marrakech was huge. Djemma al-Fna was all that I had heard it would be. Snake charmers, herbalists, musicians, comedians, monkeys, hedgehogs, and acrobats. We munched on some freshly roasted sheep and wandered the souks. I was horrified at the prices that were demanded for the goods-escalated 6 times that of what you would be given as a price in Meknes. We were able to barter a few things down to acceptable levels, and on the whole, the day was pretty fantastic! At night, Djemma al-Fna becomes even more enchanting, as portable restaurants fill the square with smoke. Eerie Eastern music fills the air, and the other attractions try one last time to entice customers.

The next day we rented a car in downtown Marrakech to begin the road trip portion of our adventure. Driving in Morocco, need I say more? We somehow made our way out of the city, picking up a map on the way. Soon, we found ourselves winding through the High Atlas. Our little golf cart (as we fondly nicknamed it) whined when forced to climb the steep hills, and she shook when she went too fast on the downhills.

In Morocco it isn't taboo to pass on curves or hills or curves on hills. In fact, I learned that for many, uphill curves provide the best opportunity to pass if your car has enough power. I think I would have been much more intimidated at the prospect of driving in Africa had I not lived here for a few months. I've had the opportunity to see how Moroccan's drive, so I knew the system or lack there of.

Having a car allowed us the freedom to make stops wherever we pleased. We pulled over and hiked to the the top of a mountain. The big stop for the day was in Ait Ben Haddou, a small kasbah that has been featured in many films-Star Wars, Lawrence of Arabia, and Gladiator, to name a few. It is one of the most picturesque cities I have ever seen. It looks like a giant sand castle on the side of a hill. The residents of the village are just beginning to learn how to take advantage of their historic town, but it is still off the beaten track enough so as to still have an almost untouched feel.

We spent that night in Ouarzazate-the Hollywood of Morocco. It reminded us of a ghost town. It isn't tourist season, and I don't think any major productions were in town. We ate at a restaurant with about 50 tables, and we were the only ones there.

The next day we drove across flat southern Morocco and stopped for a hike in the Todra Gorge, which awed us with its size and changing colors. As the daylight waned, we drove toward the desert where we let the golfcart rest for a while and opted for a more traditional form of transportation. After our Eid experience, we climbed aboard our trusty steeds (by steeds I mean gallumphy camels) and headed into the Sahara Desert for a picturesque sunset and camping under the stars.

On Thursday we drove back up to Fez, through the High Atlas where we saw snow capped mountains, throu the Middle Atlas where we saw pine trees and rivers. We drove through landscapes that looked like Arizona and through landscapes that looked like Ireland. It was absolutely gorgeous.

There are only two rules of the road in Morocco-yield to the right (an old French rule for roundabouts), and each man for himself. As we pulled into the parking lot of the Sheraton to return the car, I realized that I had adapted much too quickly to these rules-America, watch out!